


No Song That I Could Sing (But I Could Try For Your Heart)

by serendipityinwords



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Doctor! Clarke, F/M, Fluff, Pining, theyre both not the best at emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 23:09:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6133333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serendipityinwords/pseuds/serendipityinwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy knows it isn't exactly a great idea to pretend to be sick, just so he can spend more time with Clarke.</p><p>But that's never stopped him before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Song That I Could Sing (But I Could Try For Your Heart)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt : So I need a fic where Bellarke are roommates but they’re still in the hating each other faze, so Bellamy is sick and Clarke reluctantly takes care of him and Bell is being a shitty patient just to piss her off but then decides he kinda likes her taking care of him so pretends to still be sick so she’ll soothe him and stuff and then a few days later he’ll start feeling guilty and be like, “I got better three days ago.” And Clarke snorts because, “I know.” Like, she’s a doctor you idiot and you’re both in love with each other.
> 
> I took a few liberties because I am the worst. 
> 
> Title from Better Together by Us The Duo

It’s not like Bellamy _plans_ to fake being sick just so Clarke would take care of him. That would be pathetic. It happens on accident which is, you know, slightly less pathetic.

It happens like this.

Bellamy barely steps foot into their apartment when he hears her snort. “You look like shit.” Clarke is lying on their ratty couch, taking up all the space like the asshole she is, and Bellamy has to duck to hide his smile.

Any other time, Bellamy might have retorted with something equally asshole-ish. But his head feels light and he’s sure he can taste bile at the back of his throat. So, he makes a non-committal noise and settles in next to Clarke instead.

Clarke raises an eyebrow but he must look something terrible, because she sits up (He’s never known her to move if she can help it. She once threw his stress ball at the TV to get it to switch off.) She squints at him, the way he knows she isn’t Clarke His Messy Roommate as much as she is Clarke The Young And Brilliant Doctor. 

He’s stupidly fond of all the Clarkes. 

“See something you like, Princess?” he drawls because he can be a dick _and_ feel like dying at the same time.

Clarke places a hand at his forehead and all his smugness drains away at once. He doesn’t necessarily think she has to be this close to his face as she scrutinizes him. But now he _knows_ her breath smells like stale pretzels and that there’s smudged lipgloss at bottom right corner of her mouth and he feels like the world is tipping on its axis. Suddenly he’s lightheaded for more reasons than one.

Yeah, he’s not complaining.

When he sees Clarke’s eyes flicker to his lips, well, he chalks it up to the fever because there’s no way in hell he didn’t imagine that. 

“You’re sick,” he doesn’t recognize the strangeness in her voice. He doesn’t recognize the way his heart speeds up when she trails her hand from his forehead to cradle the back of her neck.

He tries to scoff but it comes out, strangled. “No shit.” She pulls away, abruptly and Bellamy can’t help but feel sorry for it. Which is stupid. Distance is a good thing for them. 

“Right.” She clears her throat and he swallows, suddenly cold all over. “You’re going to go to bed,” she says. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she sounds concerned.

“I don’t take orders from you,” he replies, petulant.

Clarke bites back a smile and Bellamy ignores the surge of pride he feels at it. It feels familiar and he hates it.

“Listen, I’m not going to die because my dick of a roommate got sick and was too stubborn to rest. I’m reserving that right for when I take a bullet for Oprah.”

He laughs, almost unwillingly. “If I go to bed, will you leave me alone?”

She rolls her eyes and her smile is something brilliant. It makes his breath catch and his chest feel warm. It’s _pathetic_. “No promises. You’re stuck with me.”

He’s glad.

So, fine. He doesn’t tell her that his fever breaks the next day when she settles in next to him, pressing a wet towel to his forehead. How could he tell her when she did that forehead scrunch thing he had always claimed to hate but secretly wanted to smooth over with the base of his thumb? She smells different everyday and her smile always reaches her eyes when she looks at him and he can’t think around her at all.  Plus, she laughs pretty when they marathon Brooklyn nine-nine and he doesn’t want to lose that. Of course, he could ask her out like a normal person. But Bellamy’s never been that great with normal or emotions or anything Clarke Griffin related. Somehow, he feels like this is it. His last chance. 

He can’t lose this thing with her. So, he fakes a cough every now and then and doesn’t tell her. Does that make him a bad person? Probably. He can’t even justify it anymore. He’s been in love with his roommate for a while now and he’s kind of desperate.

But it’s the third day and he’s passed even Bellamy Blake levels of pathetic. So when she comes into his room later, bowl of homemade soup (that probably tastes like feet _but she’s trying_ ) in hand, he tells her.

She snorts and rolls her eyes. But she’s still laying down next to him in his bed, her head resting against the crook of his neck, and they’re very near cuddling. He takes that as a good sign.

“I know. I’m a doctor, dumbass.”

He can’t even feel embarrassed about it. Not when her hands are intertwined with his and definitely not when she feels so real.

She smells like paint this time and she feels warm where he’s cold. He can’t take that as anything less than a miracle.

“I can’t believe you pretended to be sick just so you could hang out with me,” she says, voice thick with amusement.

“You could have called me out on it, whenever,” he retorts.

She hums and he feels her smile more than sees it. “I’ve never claimed to be emotionally well-adjusted.”

“Neither have I.”

He kisses the crown of her head and she sighs contently. “Maybe we can try this again? You know, without the deception?”

“Hanging out?” he asks, trying not to sound too hopeful. But who is he kidding? He’s a goner and everyone knows it. Clarke knows it. And for the first time, he’s fine with it. He’s pretty sure she is, too.

She chuckles and it’s still very pretty. “Dating.”

He smiles stupidly at the wall of his room, separating his from Clarkes’. There’s this stupid, hopeful part of him that thinks that they won’t need it anymore.

He should probably listen to that part of him. He looks over at Clarke, pretty and hopeful and familiar and a little messy. That part has done him good so far.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm idontgiveaneffie on tumblr. Come cry with me about fictional characters.


End file.
